


All That Glitters (is not Gold)

by Rumaan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Rhaegar wins, Romance, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:12:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumaan/pseuds/Rumaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhaegar wins AU. Sansa is annoyed she has to give up a day with Prince Aegon to show his boring younger brother around Winterfell. Some alone time with Prince Jon makes her re-evaluate her opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Glitters (is not Gold)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Game of Ships day 1 prompt: snowed in.
> 
> Again, this is not betaed so please excuse any dodgy grammar, awkward sentences and/or typos and I put a plea out once more for a SPaG beta who would be interested in looking over any of my ASOIAF fanfic.
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm not GRRM - this is far too happy and no one dies.

Sansa could scream she was so frustrated. She had planned a nice afternoon learning how to play Cyvasse from Prince Aegon tucked away in the warmth of the Great Keep, but instead her lord father had insisted she show Prince Aegon’s solemn younger brother around the Godswood, Crypts and Glass Gardens. 

“He’s of the North, too, Sansa, and he should know his heritage,” her father had said when she had started to protest.

“Why can’t Robb do it?” 

“Because he has to come with me to Winter Town to check on the repairs. Winter is coming and soon the town will be full.”

“What about Arya. I bet she would love to show Winterfell off.”

Father had given her his stern look and said, “I’ve asked you to do it, Sansa.”

Despite wanting to protest further, Sansa had conceded. No Stark child ever denied their father when he specifically asked them to do something. It was rare that he did and usually important. 

She had asked Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys to join them but they had already set the Cyvasse board up in the solar that the Stark children shared and when she had tried to persuade them anyway, their Dornish blood had shivered at the sight of the cold wind blowing stray snowflakes across the courtyard and soon begged off. 

So she had been stuck with Prince Jon, who had dawdled in the Godswood, staring in awe at the Heart Tree whilst Sansa had tried not to tap her foot impatiently. However, she had tempered her reluctance down in the Crypts, the sorrow that shone from Prince Jon’s face when he looked upon the statue of his mother giving her a brief feeling of empathy for her aunt’s son, and she wished she had taken him to the Glass Gardens first so he could pick some flowers to place on his mother’s lap. 

They had finally made the warmth of the Glass Gardens and Sansa had briefly worried that they had been much longer than she had guessed when the sky went gloomy and dark, but it had proven to be a snowstorm that had left them trapped in the gardens. 

Now she was pacing to-and-fro silently cursing this cousin of hers who had ruined a perfectly good day. A day she had planned to spend with Prince Aegon, listening to more of his stories and dreaming that he was not due to marry his aunt later that year.

The purple-eyed silver prince looked as if he had stepped off the pages of the stories she loved so much and he was everything she imagined a Targaryen prince to be, intelligent, amusing, and could play the harp nearly as well as the King. In comparison, Jon Targaryen had the Stark look. If she did not know better, she would have mistaken him for a son of her father’s. He was as sombre as a Northman, too, lacking the easy charm of his elder siblings. The three days he had been at Winterfell had seen him either in the training yard with Robb, the clash of steel on steel only interrupted by various yelps as a hit had been landed, or with Arya, roaming the Wolfswood on horseback. This was the first time Sansa had spent any real time with him.

The words came out of the blue, dragging Sansa’s attention away from her angry thoughts. 

“Sorry.”

She whipped her head around to see him staring at her, a hand wrapped around the back of his neck and one boot scuffing the floor slightly.

“What?” she asked, confused.

“I know you did not wish to do this and now you are trapped with me in here,” he said, looking at her with grey eyes so reminiscent of her father that she inhaled sharply.

Shame flooded through her. Had she been that ungracious that he had known how much she resented having to accompany him? “No, no. It’s not that,” she said, her voice faltering a little on the lie.

He shrugged a little and looked away and Sansa winced at the guilt that settled in her stomach. The sign of a true lady was welcoming everyone, no matter how much she wanted to focus on one prince in particular.

“No,” she said, moving forward and placing her hand gingerly on his forearm to regain his attention. “I am the one who should be sorry. It was not well done of me to be so inhospitable.”

Prince Jon looked down at her pale white hand resting on his black furs and back up to her face. “I understand. My brother and sister are very charming,” he said giving her a small smile that was more a grimace and implied that he was not.

Sansa read between the lines of his sentence rather easily, having just been thinking the same thing a few minutes ago, and was confused by the desire to make him feel better. “Robb and Arya seem to find your company more pleasing,” she said with an encouraging smile.

She was stunned by the grin that lit up his face, making him look a lot less severe. He had his father’s smile, beautiful and sweet, and she was rather dazed at the transformation it wrought. Maybe he wasn’t so ill favoured after all.

“I have enjoyed getting to know my mother’s kin. They have been very kind.”

Sansa was sure he did not mean that as a reproach to her, but the words stung a little anyway. Mayhaps it was her own guilty conscience pointing out that she had not bothered with her cousin, finding him far too dour compared to his siblings.

“I think Robb is pleased to have someone his age to train with. Bran and Rickon are so much younger and Arya is pleased that you are not like a proper prince.”

Prince Jon’s face fell a little and Sansa found herself asking, “What did I say?”

He shook his head a little. “Nothing,” he replied far too quickly for her to believe him.

Sansa went over her words before wincing a little as she realised how her words about Arya could be misconstrued, especially to someone who might already be sensitive about his role. 

“Arya would think that the highest compliment she could give,” Sansa said, attempting to soften the words.

“Aye, she probably would,” he said, warmth infusing his tone but Sansa was sad to see the smile did not reappear. “When do you think our presence will be missed?” 

The change of subject was not particularly subtle, but Sansa went with it, keen to leave the prickly topic of Prince Jon’s place in the royal family behind. The strange relationship that existed between him and the rest of the royal family had not been missed by anyone in Winterfell and Prince Jon had spent more time away from his siblings than in their company since arriving. 

“My mother will miss us shortly, I am sure.”

There was silence for a few moments as they both stared at each other awkwardly wondering what to do to fill the time.

“Would you mind taking me on the tour of the gardens whilst we wait?”

Sansa nodded eagerly, realising that the sudden snow storm had started just as they entered the Glass Gardens and had taken their attention with its ferocity.

As she showed him where they grew their fresh fruit and vegetables, he questioned her about life at Winterfell and the North in general. He listened carefully to her answers, none of his interest feigned and she realised she appreciated this. Most of the royal party made no attempt to hide their contempt of the North, viewing it as uncivilised and backwards. A land of grumpkins and snarks with harsh, uncouth lords and tree gods. 

She tailed off the story she was telling him about Bran the Builder as they approached the blue roses that climbed up the back of the Glass Gardens. His attention had zoomed in on them as they had come into sight and his nods and interjections had become random and unfocused, so she knew he was not really listening. His hand came out to stroke the nearest blooms and she felt moisture well up in her eyes as he touched them reverently, as if they were a connection to his mother.

“Does Lord Stark talk about my mother much?”

The question jolted her, breaking the comfortable silence that had lingered between them.

“No,” she said softly. “My uncle Benjen has told us more but neither like to speak of Lyanna or Brandon. I think it still hurts.”

“My father never mentions her. I asked him once but he told me never to speak her name again.”

Her heart broke with that sentence as she stared at the prince, wondering how a father could be so cruel as to deny a son knowledge of his mother, and she understood now why this prince did not smile as much as his brother. There was a sadness there, a lack of belonging that caused him to withdraw into himself, which she found a lot more endearing than easy smiles and laughs. 

Keen to share all that she knew about Lyanna, she said, “My father says Arya looks most like Lyanna. That she has the wolf-blood to match and, like Arya, Lyanna would beat her younger brother at swords and ride with him through the wolfswood, that there was no other lady in all of Westeros that could match his sister’s skill on a horse until Arya was born.”

Prince Jon smiled. “She must have been a good horsewoman indeed if Arya is considered her like.”

The old resentment towards Arya welled up briefly in Sansa. They had fought like cat and dog when younger. Arya’s rude and rough manner an embarrassment to Sansa. But as they got older, this had mellowed into affection. An appreciation that whilst her sister was as different to her as night was to day, she was still her sister, and nothing could replace that bond.

“But Uncle Benjen says that while Arya looks like Lyanna, that I have her love of songs and stories. He told me that the only thing that could move Lyanna to tears was a singer with a melancholy tale. She was as romantic as she was wild.”

Sansa realised with a start that Prince Jon had tears in his eyes and her hand fluttered out for a minute before coming to rest once more at her side. “Your Highness, I am sorry. I did not wish to upset you.”

She half expected him to become embarrassed by his emotions but instead, he casually wiped the moisture away. “No, don’t apologise. I wanted to hear of her and I did not dare approach Lord Stark. And please, call me Jon.”

“My father would gladly tell you of your mother, I am sure. He would not like to think you know nothing about her, Jon.” She said, calling him by his name a little shyly.

He reached out and snapped one of the roses off its stem, bringing it briefly to his nose to smell. “Thank you, Lady Sansa, for bringing me here and telling me not only about my mother but Winterfell. I like to be where she grew up. I find I can imagine her more clearly here.”

“If I am to call you Jon, then it is hardly fitting that you should stick with Lady Sansa.”

He laughed then, throwing his head back a little and she found she liked what smiles and laughter did to his face, brightening his expression and crinkling his eyes up in the corner. 

“Would you tell me about King’s Landing and the South?” she asked eagerly.

“You would want to know?”

“Oh yes! I begged Father if we could come to the tournament the King held to celebrate his fifteenth year of reign but he said no,” she told him with a small pout.

He eyed her face in amusement. “I think you would be more disappointed with King’s Landing than you realise.”

“Oh no! Not with all those tournaments and singers. It would be thrilling.”

He wrinkled his nose up a little. “The air is less salubrious than you are used to, the slums overcrowded and spilling out into the main town.”

“I will not allow you to dampen my dreams, Jon,” she said repressively and delighted in pulling one of those rare laughs from him once more. “You must have been at the tournament. Did you compete? I believe your brother did.”

His brow furrowed. “I did, yes, but not very willingly. I am not a good jouster but Father insisted we both represent House Targaryen on the field. Sadly I did not do justice to the favour Rhaenys bestowed on me.”

“But Robb said you are very good with a sword and I’ve seen you ride.”

He leaned into her conspiratorially and asked in a teasing voice, “Have you been checking up on me?”

She laughed lightly, hiding the fact that she was shocked he could tease. Nothing about his solemn demeanour so far had suggested a sense of humour. “No, Robb willingly talks about you at every turn and compares your desire to spar with Prince Aegon’s lack of desire. I think he is enamoured.”

He flushed slightly, as if he was not used to being anyone favourite, but grinned at her. “I believe my brother takes after my father, who prefers to read and play music than swordplay, although no one should doubt his skill.”

“Then you must take after your mother in more than looks,” she said, bumping his shoulder playfully.

She caught herself, scolding internally for being so familiar with a royal prince and not behaving with the ladylike decorum she prided herself on. She missed the warm look her sent her away as she hastily moved away from him and went to peer at the tall bank of snow that had them trapped in the Glass Gardens.

Not being able to see anything, she spun back around and eyed the prince, who was now studying the rose in his hand. She had come into this afternoon resenting his presence, but he had surprised her. Oh, he would never be as lively as his older siblings but his quieter temperament hid a kindness that had soothed her into feeling so comfortable that she had taken liberties with him. However, when he smiled, his face lit up, his eyes twinkling with merriment and his full lips pulled into a beautiful grin, and she was blinded by how handsome it made him. Altogether he made for a confusing picture and she was no longer sure what she thought of him. Without a doubt, it was more favourable than the opinion she had held prior to being snowed in with him, the warm, anxious butterflies in her stomach told her that. 

Jon fingered the blue rose and Sansa found herself watching his long fingers caress the petals, his actions slow and deliberate. Her cheeks reddened as she imagined what his delicate movements would feel like against her skin. As if he felt her gaze, he looked at her, a hint of surprise in his eyes as he took in her flushed face and shallow breathing, and his own eyes darkened a fraction. He stepped closer to her and tucked the rose behind her ear, his hand lingering on a strand of hair.

“Here,” he said, his tone husky. “I was going to try and go back to the Crypts to give this to my mother but I think you should have it.”

She shivered as his hand brushed her neck as it dropped, but before it could rest once more at his side, she caught it in her own, marvelling a little at the calluses that dotted his palm, a result of his sword training. What she had planned to say was swallowed as she felt a burn running down from his little finger to his wrist. She turned his hand up to gain a look.

“What happened?” 

“When I was nine, Viserys dared me to prove that I really was a dragon so I put my hand in a burning torch. Unsurprisingly, it was burnt.”

Sansa’s felt indignation on Jon’s behalf. “But that is silly. Of course fire will still burn you. I’m a Stark but it does not mean the cold cannot kill me.”

“You have never met my uncle. He is rather fond of the phrase ‘fire cannot kill a dragon’. It was only the wrath of my father when he found out that made Viserys stop doubting my parentage.”

Without realising what she was doing, Sansa bent down and softly kissed the burn. It was only the sharp indrawn breath that brought her to her senses. She raised her head, bright red splotches burning in her cheeks, and dropped his hand quickly. 

“I…er… I am…sorry,” she stuttered hesitantly.

She could not face looking at him, humiliation burning through her as she wondered what she had been thinking, and it was only the warm hand cupping her cheek that brought her out of her chaotic thoughts.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t feel embarrassed.”

She stared mutely up at him and watched in strange fascination as he head lowered and his lips gently brushed hers, once and then twice before settling on hers firmly, his lips moulding to hers, and she was caught up in a maelstrom of taste and touch that was thrilling, and far nicer than the few kisses she had shared with Cley Cerwyn.

The sound of spades scraping against stone had them leaping away from each other. Sansa’s hand crept up her throat before covering her mouth in shock. She, who had always prided herself on behaving like a proper lady, had nearly been caught kissing a man who was not even her betrothed. Shame covered her face bright red.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, what must you think of me,” she whispered shakily, gladly clinging onto his royal title to help remind herself of who exactly he is.

“Don’t. Don’t be sorry for that,” he said pleadingly, walking towards her, but she backed away, unsure of what would happen if she allowed him too close once more.

The decreasing bank of snow brought more light into the Glass Gardens and reminded them that they had little time left alone and Jon agitatedly tugged at curls resting on the back of his neck. “Listen, Lady Sansa, there is something I need to tell you. A reason your father asked you to take me on this tour-,”

But before he could say anything further, Jory Cassel’s face was at the window. “We’ll have you out of there in no time, Your Highness, Lady Sansa,”he called.

It was too late for any further private confusion and the frustration she felt marred Jon’s face as he, too, realised this.

\----------

Winterfell’s men dug them out quickly and efficiently with a flurry of activity that had Sansa swept up and back in the Great Keep before she had the chance to look around for Jon. She did not see him again until they had all gathered in the Great Hall for the main meal.

“I understand I will be going to King’s Landing after all,” she said to him, as a way of opening.

He turned to her, confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, did you not know either? I was sure that this was what you wished to speak to me about.”

He flushed and rubbed his beard sheepishly. “Lord Stark spoke to you?”

She nodded her assent and he continued, “Are you sure you do not mind? I know I am not the prince most people would want.”

Aware of the eyes that were upon them, Sansa could not cup his jaw as she wished, so she settled for clasping his hand under the table. “You should not constantly compare yourself to your brother. Not all precious things sparkle and I am very well satisfied with my prince.”

He smiled brightly at her and as her eyes slid to Prince Aegon beside him, Sansa was unsure of how she could have ever preferred him over Jon.


End file.
